A Date with Death

Today is the last day of Max’s life. I’m not sure that he is making the most of it. But then I’m rather hoping he doesn’t understand that it is his last day. Unless he wants it to be.

The vet is coming at five o’clock to put us out of his misery, and Simon is out with the digger at this very moment preparing a hole for Max’s imminent burial. It all seems so incredibly bizarre. So pre-planned. So practical. It feels like Max is a condemned dog on Death Row, and I feel that we should be offering him one last favourite meal and a cigarette. Except that he has totally lost his appetite, and has a terrible cough.

This is harder than I thought it would be.

Max has gone downhill slowly and steadily over the last couple of weeks. Each day we seem to have agreed on the line at which we would draw this misery to a close. And as each line has been reached, we have found a way to justify extending it, and have accommodated to a new low, always thinking that it is possible he might rally yet again, or at least that he is still capable of getting some enjoyment out of life.

But for the last 48 hours he has shown no willingness to try anymore. He has given up. He isn’t being stubborn. He has clearly just had enough. And the pointlessness of virtually carrying him outside so he can lie on the grass and maybe wee, but probably not, and then carrying him back in again to resume his prone and unmoving position inside has struck home. He is waiting to die, and we are waiting for him to die. And in the meantime he is doing my back in.

So this morning we had The Conversation, and we both got quite tearful, and then we called in at the vet’s office to pick up some stuff we need for Valentine’s neck (which is another story), and while we were there, Simon arranged for the vet to call round later today to ‘faire piquer notre vieux chien’. And I have decided that I will not cry any more, because I have thought all the sentimental, heart-breaking thoughts already, and I do not need to think them again, because enough is enough, and it won’t help anyone. And anyway, I’m sure that later today Simon will be doing enough weeping for both of us, because, unlike me, he is not dead inside.

So to try to move painlessly into the post-Max era, I am thinking about the good things that will come from this decision. There will be more room in the house, and there will be less hair. There will be more fun and less misery. There will be more time for the animals that have time for more of life. And in a couple of weeks, we will have got used to Max’s absence, and the change will have morphed into the status quo. It’s a funny thing to have started the getting-over something, before the something has even happened.

And yet, as I look at him lying on his bed in the sunshine, with Min lying next to him as if everything was perfectly normal, it still seems hard to believe that, in less than three hours, Max will Be No More.

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One Response to A Date with Death

  1. Linda says:

    Sorry about Max. I bet the dogs and cats will get over it quicker than you and Simon! By the way thanks for your suggestion about the llamas. We will think about it once we have got through the next few weeks.

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